Bitterroot Valley ✢ Pretty boy

the stranger, ezra has come to quickly deduce, does not seem to be a man of many words. normally, this does not bother the stoneson but they are strangers — not even a exchange of names had been given — and it is clear to the young buck that he has encroached on if not territory than clearly property. a last glimpse at the herd is given before hesitant steps follow the stranger at the beckon.

a breath pushes past his lips; salmon tongue drawling across his jowls.

he was in no state to fight if he was being summoned, wordlessly, to a duel. ezra could let youthful arrogance bolster his ego but he was logic driven, for the most part. hungry. thin. weak. a fight would be the end of his short life.

still, wary he draws up to the elk, swallowing the pool of saliva in his mouth harshly as he's commanded to eat. wearily, he shoots the stranger a glimpse. everything had a price. what was the price of this meal? but temptation grips the stoneson in it's claws, tugging him into he depths and he's tearing a strip of meat from the carcass and chewing the meat and swallowing before going in from another bite.

it's only when he's had his fill, when his hunger is sated to the point of a small bought of nausea as if gluttony had taken over ezra in those moments, does he take a step back; cleaning off his jowls. vhat is the price for the meat? he asks the question he should've asked in the beginning; he'd eaten at the other man's proverbial table ... and now the price was his own to pay.